


Your Sweet and Weary Head

by crzy_wrtr10



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Exhaustion, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, OT3 friendship, Papa Bear Treville, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crzy_wrtr10/pseuds/crzy_wrtr10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The nearer he got the more clearly he could see they were visibly flagging. Aramis had his chin hooked over Athos’s shoulder; Athos’s head lolled, the man either asleep or unconscious, and Porthos put one foot in front of the other with the dogged determination Treville had always admired from him.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In which the boys are exhausted, and Treville sees to his men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Sweet and Weary Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tenebrielle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenebrielle/gifts).



> Hey, look. More 1630's genfic! 
> 
> Work is psychotic, life in general is a runaway freight train. But the fandom is, as always, awesome. I adore you all. Seriously. 
> 
> Title taken from "Into the West" sung by Annie Lennox from _The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King_ soundtrack. 
> 
> I don't own anything you recognize, and the government takes all my money in student loans. 
> 
> Also, I apologize if everyone is wildly - or mildly - OOC.

_Lay down your sweet and weary head_  
 _Night is falling, we have come to journey's end_  
 _Sleep now, and dream of the ones who came before_  
-Into the West

 

Treville knew his three Inseparables had run into trouble. D’Artagnan turning up at the meeting point without them was one sign, and the other were two rider-less horses, Aramis’s rifle still in the scabbard on the one. He’d sent a weary d’Artagnan on to Paris, and the boy hadn’t had enough energy left to protest. Treville himself, though, wasn’t going anywhere until the last of his men appeared either under their own power or by someone else’s.

And appear they finally did out of the early evening gloom, two riding double, and one leading the horse.

He rode away from the outskirts of the village to meet them.

Porthos, on foot, jerked at the approaching hoof beats, but went for neither sword nor gun. He eyed Treville from beneath the brim of his hat, and the set of his shoulders relaxed minutely. It was then Treville noticed Aramis drop his hand – holding his pistol – back beneath the folds of Athos’s cloak and out of sight.

The nearer he got the more clearly he could see they were visibly flagging. Aramis had his chin hooked over Athos’s shoulder; Athos’s head lolled, the man either asleep or unconscious, and Porthos put one foot in front of the other with the dogged determination Treville had always admired from him.

“Gentlemen.”

Porthos brought them to a halt, swaying slightly. “Captain.” Aramis blinked slowly. Athos didn’t move.

 _Exhausted. The lot of them._ He dismounted, and with a few pointed words and gestures, managed to get Porthos to climb in the newly vacated saddle. Porthos sat heavily, and didn’t object when Treville led both animals forward.

“How long as he been ill, Aramis?” Treville asked.

“Three days.” Aramis coughed to clear his throat. “Just a cold. Nothing serious.”

“And how long have you had it?”

“Since yesterday,” Porthos answered, ignoring Aramis’s glare. “Hasn’t slept for two days.”

Aramis muttered something in Spanish; Porthos chuckled tiredly. Treville subtly picked up the pace.

 

He’d gotten a larger room at the inn than he otherwise would have when he learned Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were overdue. He was rather thankful of that now. What he regretted was sending d’Artagnan back – he could have used the extra pair of hands.

Before he could say otherwise, Porthos was off his borrowed horse and beside Roger. He pointed a finger at Aramis, and said, “You wait for the Captain. I’m not pickin’ your ass outta the dirt again.”

Aramis heaved a rather put-upon sigh, but stayed in the saddle even after he tipped Athos out of it into Porthos’s waiting arms. The big man huffed at the added weight, and started past the staring stable boys as though Athos weighed no more than they did. 

Only when Treville was within arm’s reach did he slide gracelessly to the ground. He seemed to need a moment, leaning against Roger’s warm side, before he turned for the door of the inn. Treville took him by the elbow – in case he should waver – and by the time they made it to the second floor, Aramis was drenched in sweat and swaying on his feet.

“ – see, he’s right there. The Captain’s got him.” Porthos, on his knees as Athos sat on the edge of the bed in order to get to the buttons of his doublet more easily, tipped his head in Treville’s direction.

The captain deposited Aramis in a nearby chair.

“Is he awake?” Aramis rasped.

Athos, pale as parchment save for two fever-bright spots of color on his cheeks, leaned precariously around Porthos’s broad shoulder to better see Aramis. He blinked slowly, utterly pliant as Porthos stripped him to his shirtsleeves. 

“His eyes are open but I don’t think he’s all there yet.” Porthos tossed a hard look over his shoulder. “You need a hand?”

“No,” Aramis muttered, his trembling fingers clumsy on his own fastenings.

“Weapons first, lad,” Treville said, undoing the buttons on Aramis’s boat cloak. He took the damp garment and tossed it toward the pile of Athos’s outer clothes nearer to the fire. 

There were two beds in the room, a small table, two chairs, and a fireplace someone had seen to beforehand, as the fire crackled merrily. The captain surveyed the room and allowed his eyes to land on his men: Athos was more asleep than awake, Porthos had exhausted written on every muscle, and Aramis was too damn stubborn to give in quietly to his body’s need for rest.

Finally, stripped all the way to his linen, Aramis wobbled to his bare feet. He shuffled across the floorboards toward Athos and Porthos.

Treville caught sight of his Musketeer’s back. “Aramis!”

That particular tone had never failed to work an anyone. Aramis halted mid-step and looked over his shoulder. “Captain?”

“What happened?” He came closer, inspecting the purple bruise along his left shoulder and down his torso. 

“Knocked me off m’horse.” Stifling a yawn, Aramis shivered, and gooseflesh erupted along his arms and chest. “Tree.”

Gently, Treville palpitated the area to ensure Aramis hadn’t broken any ribs. The younger man flinched at the pressure, but as his breathing didn’t change nor did anything shift under his fingertips, Treville confirmed it was merely ugly bruising. 

“Go on, lad,” the captain said, giving him a small push to continue to him on his way. 

Athos wearily picked his head off his chin as Aramis all but fell onto the bed next to where he sat and crawled toward the wall. “Are you actually going to sleep now?” was what he tried to say, though it came it more garbled consonants with the odd vowel. Aramis simply curled up with his injured side down, away from prying eyes and fingers, and glared. 

“Sick,” Athos said, eyes half-shut as Porthos helped ease him down to the straw mattress. 

“Yep. We know. We’ll take care of him.”

Treville watched, rather wide-eyed, as Porthos all but tucked the two of them in. Aramis was still clinging to consciousness by the last threads of his willpower, and Porthos, shuffling toward the other bed as he divested himself of his layers, muttered, “Wait for it.”

Aramis rolled slightly onto his front, half on Athos and half off, head coming to rest on his chest. Athos, in response, wrapped his arm around Aramis’s head. From then on the only sound in the room, apart from the crackling in the fireplace, was the sound of congested breathing from the two sound asleep in the bed. 

“They wander when they’re sick,” Porthos said, fumbling with the last of the fastenings of his own doublet. Treville took pity on his exhausted man – who had probably spent a great deal of his own waning energy looking after the other two – and helped him down to his shirt sleeves and breeches. 

“Put ‘em together and they don’t,” he continued. His voice was muffled as the captain tugged his shirt over his head. “Aramis sleeps better with somebody next to him, and Athos…” he trailed off, rather stunned to find himself down his own linen and sitting on the edge of the other bed. “What?”

“I think I can handle them,” Treville said, arranging Porthos’s limbs more comfortably when the man finally gave in to his exhaustion and settled heavily. 

“Hush, and sleep. I’ll keep watch.” He covered Porthos with a blanket, and, when he was finally assured the man was sleeping, dragged a chair between the middle of the two beds so he could clearly see his men. 

He meant what he’d said – he’d keep watch over them until they were able to do it themselves once more.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Rise to Find the Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177004) by [AgarthanGuide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgarthanGuide/pseuds/AgarthanGuide), [crzy_wrtr10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crzy_wrtr10/pseuds/crzy_wrtr10)




End file.
